Mutiny

by Julian Stockwin

  “What nonsense is this?” said Murray aghast.

  The captain appeared from below. “Mr. Murray, why are these men in arms?”

  The boarders smiled grimly. “An’ as of this minute, Cap’n, you’re released fr’m duty. You’re desired ter yield up yer ship to th’ committee.”

  Gobbling with anger, the captain opened his mouth to speak.

  “No, sir, we’ll take none o’ yer pratin’. Take a squiz there.” The seaman indicated Director, lying barely a hundred yards abeam, and Inflexible, fine on the bow. “These’re all risen, they is, every one. An’ if I signal, well, there’s more’n a hundred guns’ll answer.” As if on cue, gunports opened all down the sides of the ships-of-the-line.

  At the threat there was little that could be done. The mutineer went to the ship’s side and hailed the waiting boats. “Right, lads, let’s get ter work.”

  After securing the ship, the mutineers set up a committee in the starboard bay, holding court on the unfortunates against whom complaints had been laid. First the officers: most of them were deemed “unsuitable” and given fifteen minutes to be clear of the ship. One boatswain’s mate was taken below in irons to be dealt with later, and a sergeant of marines was given a ducking. Liberty tickets were freely given under the hand of the committee.

  Renzi watched the proceedings with interest, for without doubt it would be talked of for years to come. But then the new-elected delegates called him below, and he was asked to give a statement of position, and abruptly told, “Fer a foremast jack yer’ve got a wry way o’ talkin’, cuffin. I thinks fer y’ own sake, better ye’re ashore ’n’ out of it.”

  In the boat on the way to Sheerness, Renzi’s eyes lifted as he took in the unmistakable bulk of Achilles. The boat’s crew cheered as they passed, and were answered with a full-throated roar from the ship. Renzi wondered if Kydd was aboard, or had been turned ashore, perhaps after an intemperate but loyal outburst. Whatever the case, probably within the day he would be seeing his friend once more.

  He glanced at the boat’s crew. They were in high spirits and full of what they would do ashore. In their way, these men were as close to the paradigm of Natural Man as it was possible to find: the suborning elements of civilization were necessarily denied to them—he would never find such stout beliefs and open character in the elegant, blasé world that awaited him.

  The dockyard was in a state of feverish chaos and open disorder. People were all about but the gaunt ribs of new ships were not thronged with shipwrights and their sidesmen, the sawpits were deserted and the smithy silent.

  Renzi was able to share a handcart for his sea chest with one of the lieutenants at the price of pushing the creaking relic. The lieutenant was eager to be quit of Sheerness and saw no reason why he should not return to his family until the whole disgraceful episode was over.

  They quickly crossed the marshes and left the noisy revelry of Blue Town behind. The lieutenant waited for a coach in the small hotel at the start of the London turnpike, but Renzi was not sure what to do. He had no plans after being so recently turned out of his ship; it would need some thinking about but, given the tumult and isolated nature of Sheppey, it was unlikely he would stay either.

  The lugubrious landlord took a deal of gloomy pleasure in telling them of developments at Spithead as current rumor had it. Such events did not greatly surprise Renzi. The wonder in his mind was that the seamen had not acted earlier, given the criminal neglect of their circumstances. That the mutiny was brilliantly organized, widespread and effective was the surprising element. Could it be the work of Jacobin agents? However, with Robespierre executed there was a more skeptical cast to the power struggle now ensuing that probably didn’t include such a hot desire to export their revolution—but without a doubt the French would be mad not to seize the opportunity to act against England. It was as grave a state of affairs as he had known, and the government would be well advised to act rapidly and decisively against the mutineers.

  He had to speak to Kydd—that much was clear. Leaving his sea chest, he walked back through the apprehensive inhabitants of Mile Town to the carnival atmosphere in Blue Town. Outside one of the larger timbered hostelries in the high street a crowd was gathered, applauding two rabble-rousers. Renzi winced even though, at the distance, he couldn’t hear the words, but the exultant roars that punctuated the speech did not leave much doubt over the nature of the harangue. He had to pass by to reach the dockyard in his mission to find Kydd, and glanced over the back of the crowd at the speakers. One was a dark, intense individual who appeared almost messianic in his zeal. The other was Kydd.

  Rigid with surprise, Renzi stared at his friend while the other man declaimed against His Majesty’s treasonable ministers. A sailor whooped his approval next to him. “Who are these gentlemen?” Renzi asked him.

  “Why, that’s the president o’ the delegates, Dick Parker, is he. Th’ admiral we calls ’im on account he berths in th’ admiral’s quarters in Sandwich.”

  “And the other?”

  “Ah, that there’s Tom Kydd, mate off Achilles. Right ol’ fire-eater he, faced down t’ th’ first luff an’ got him turned off’is ship an’ then got in wi’ Dick Parker ter be his sec’tary, he havin’ an education an’ all.”

  Struck dumb with astonishment, Renzi stayed until the speeches had run their course, then pushed into the crowd. “Tom!” he called, unable to get through the jovial mob. “Ahoy there, shipmate!”

  Finally it penetrated. Kydd looked up from his conversation with a pretty woman. “Nicholas!” he shouted, above the hullabaloo. “Make a lane there, y’ lubbers!”

  Kydd was back in simple seaman’s rig, white duck trousers, waistcoat and short blue jacket, and was flushed with the occasion. “Hey, now! Nicholas, well met, m’ fine frien’.”

  “An’ this is Kitty, Kitty Malkin. She’s walkin’ out wi’ me, lives on the hulks in as snug a home as any I’ve seen. Look, let’s away fr’m here ’n’ talk.”

  Kitty flashed Renzi a shrewd look. “Pleased t’ make y’r acquaintance, sir.” She turned to Kydd and patted his arm. “Do go wi’ y’r friend, dear, I have some shoppin’ to do.”

  Renzi fell into step with Kydd. They found the road across the marshes relatively peaceful, and slowly walked together. “Such a happenin’ the world’s never seen.” Kydd chuckled. “Dare t’ say that in Parliament they’re rare put to think what t’ do.”

  “Er, yes, I’m sure that is the case,” Renzi said. “But do you not think that Mr. Pitt—under pressure as he is—would not in any wise tolerate a new mutiny just as the old one is at a crisis?”

  Kydd’s face darkened. “That’s not th’ question. It is, do we stan’ with our brothers in Spithead, or do we shamefully leave ’em t’ the hazard all alone?”

  “Of course, dear fellow, I quite see that—an expression of support is demanded at this time.” He allowed the moment to cool, then continued, “You are assisting Mr. Parker …?”

  “I am,” said Kydd, “but not in a big way, o’ course. He’s got a mort o’ work t’ do, bringin’ all th’ ships together f’r the cause, some as are bein’ fractious an’ ill disciplined.” He looked at Renzi directly. “Dick Parker is a great man, Nicholas. A real headpiece on him. He’s given himself t’ the cause of his shipmates, an’ that makes him a right good hand by me.”

  Renzi hesitated. “This is open mutiny—you stand in peril of your life.”

  Kydd smiled. “Not really, Nicholas. Y’ see, we have it fr’m Spithead that there’ll be a pardon for ev’ryone after it’s all settled.”

  “And this is declared in writing? From Parliament—or the King? This requires an Act of Parliament at the least.”

  “Damn you, Nicholas, why do ye always see the gloomy side o’ things? We’re goin’ t’ stand tall ’n’ demand that we be heard, an’ won’t move until we get our justice.”

  “For the sake of friendship, I have to say again—it is no flogging matter, you are in mutiny. This is a cap
ital crime!”

  “We’ll have th’ pardon!”

  “You think you’ll have the pardon!”

  Kydd squared up to Renzi. “You’re sayin’ as I shouldn’t stand f’r what I know’s right. How’s that f’r y’r talk o’ principle an’ moral right as y’ used to tell?”

  Renzi could see Kydd was incensed: there was no way to reach him. “I do not dispute the rightness of your cause, only the way in which you pursue it,” he replied quickly.

  “Tell me how else we should, seein’ as how f’r the first time we’re gettin’ the whole fleet to rise at th’ same time? You say we have t’ drop ev’rything now, just when we’re a whisker away fr’m success?” Kydd snorted. “Somethin’ has happened t’ you, Nicholas. Y’ go around wi’ the blue devils all the while, an’ now when y’ shipmates need y’r help an’ understandin’ then y’ go cold ’n’ condemn ’em. I recommend y’ sort out whatever ails ye an’ think about things. I have t’ go—things t’ do.”

  Renzi trudged back to the little public house in Mile Town. It was madness, of course. The government would not survive the crisis of a second mutiny and would not, could not, let it succeed.

  A small note sent later in the day to Sandwich inviting Kydd for a supper together was returned promptly with an inability scrawled on the back. The noise and laughter of Blue Town echoed across the marsh, and Renzi needed to get away. Possibly there was a pardon on offer—unlikely, yet not impossible. But if not, there would be grim scenes soon.

  He decided to join the other shipless exiles in the coach to Rochester, where they would wait out the inevitable in the more agreeable surroundings of the ancient town.

  Kydd had regretted his manner even before he returned to Sandwich but he didn’t want to see Renzi just now. He realized that it was due to the excitement of the hour, the exalted state of achieving so much against the world’s antagonism and the extraordinary festive air, all being thrown down in the dust by his friend. There might have been some truth in what Renzi said, but he was not privy to the kind of information that Parker had relayed to Kydd from Spithead.

  There was movement in the anchorage as he returned to Sandwich. A smart eighteen-pounder frigate had unwittingly moored at the head of the Nore, just having sailed leisurely down-river. “San Fiorenzo,” Kydd was told. He remembered that this was the frigate assigned to take the royal couple on their honeymoon.

  Back aboard, Kydd looked at the ship. “Has she declared f’r us?” he asked.

  “No signs yet, mate.” Coxall lowered his glass and gave it to Kydd.

  “Give ’em three good ’uns, lads,” Kydd said. Men leaped into the rigging and obeyed heartily, but through the glass he could see no sign of yard-ropes being reeved on the frigate, and there was no cheering. “They’ll come to it when they hears,” Kydd said.

  The bulk of Inflexible under topsails slid around the point, on her way to the Great Nore. From another direction came a pair of boats headed for San Fiorenzo. Kydd lifted his glass again. “The delegates, lads. They’ll put ’em straight.”

  There was activity on her deck, but nothing could be made out for sure until figures went down her side again and the boats put off. By this time Inflexible had drawn close, slipping past on the tide. A massed roar of cheers broke out, but the frigate remained silent. Another volley of cheers brought no response. The battleship did not vary her course, but as she drew abreast of the frigate, a sudden puff erupted from her fo’c’sle, and the sullen thud of a nine-pound gun echoed.

  “Be buggered!” The shot had gone close under the frigate’s bowsprit, whipping ropes apart and tearing into the sea less than a hundred yards beyond. In one stroke the mutiny had changed its character. Kydd whipped down the telescope. “Dick’s below?” he snapped, but didn’t wait for an answer and plunged down the malodorous decks to the cabins aft. He burst in on Parker without ceremony. “Inflexible jus’ fired on San Fi!” he shouted.

  “I know,” said Parker mildly.

  “Y’ know? Dick—do y’ know what they did? They fired on a King’s ship! That’s worse’n mutiny, that’s treason!”

  “Tom, I know the Inflexibles are warm for the cause, they may have overstepped, but look there. San Fiorenzo is reeving yard-ropes and cheering as well as we.”

  Kydd looked past Parker through the open ornamental stern lights at the ship, now manning yards and cheering.

  Parker leaned back. “You see? They are now free to express their loyalty to a cause that before they could not. I will not hide it from you—when we rose, we had the advantage of surprise for success. In this way the rising was bloodless, direct. We no longer have this luxury A ship may be in a tyranny, the seamen unable to throw off the trammels, but if then a superior argument is brought to bear, they are released to stand for their beliefs, and equally bloodless. You see?”

  “But with guns?”

  “Just so.” Parker sighed and steepled his fingers. “There is no escaping the imperatives of cold reason, my friend. You will agree that our cause is just, pure in motivation, the higher matter?”

  “O’ course.”

  “And for this task we must set to, heart and hand, until it is finished?”

  “Aye.”

  “Then we have the choice. Either we bow to the forces who oppose us, and allow them to carry off in despotism the very souls we are striving to serve, or we righteously show our determination, and make it possible for them to spring free of their shackles.”

  Kydd looked away, searching for objections. “Ye’re in th’ right of it, as usual, Dick,” he came back. “If we don’t show firm, then it’s t’ betray y’r shipmates, an’ that I’ll never do.”

  “It may be,” Parker added softly, “that we could be forced into some even more difficult choices before we prevail.”

  The day had turned to bright sunshine, and ashore families were enjoying picnics on the grassy slopes of the old fort. Boats crisscrossed the anchorage, ship-visiting, going to parades ashore, bringing delegates to Sandwich.

  Parker greeted Kydd warmly. “If you please, my friend, we have a Parliament committee in the Great Cabin, and I would be happy for you to attend, in the character of a scribe or some such.”

  Parker clearly relished his role. As the delegates arrived he was punctilious as to seating and precedence based on size of ship, and greeted each with grave politeness or hearty welcome according to temper. Kydd sat at the other end of the table, preparing to take minutes in the best way he could. Farnall was there, representing Achilles, and looked down the table at him several times, but did not speak.

  The rumpled, middle-aged John Hulme reported Director quiet with Captain Bligh still aboard and in his cabin, the mutineer captain of Proserpine complained of short stores and Davis of Sandwich dryly told the committee of one Thomas McCann. He had apparently been sent ashore sick, complained loudly of the lazaretto beer and returned to Sandwich; when his messmates sent him to another ship’s sick quarters he had said he was afraid of the ship’s butcher—he had helped duck the man the day before.

  Daily details dealt with, Parker turned to the more congenial task of further codifying the regulations. This was not particularly to the liking of most, who were visibly bored, but Parker and Farnall obviously enjoyed the cut and thrust of debate, the points of order, seconding of motions and the like. Kydd industriously covered the exchanges, but did not bother with the explanations demanded by baffled sailors.

  Parker’s expression hardened. “While Mr. Kydd prepares a fair transcript of the regulations for copying, it is my sad duty to have to tell you that James Watt, in flagrant contravention of our regulations for conduct, was taken in drink in the orlop. Now I don’t have to tell you that if there is a general breakdown in discipline then—”

  “Flog the bugger!” Hulme was in no doubt.

  Parker looked pained. “First we must have a trial, at which—”

  “Fuck me, we’ll be ’ere all day. I vote we flogs ’im an’ done wi’ it. Who says ‘aye
’?”

  “You can’t just—”

  “Aye!”

  The forceful shout drowned Parker, who looked around darkly “How will—”

  “I’ll do it m’self, the useless skulker! Anythin’ else, mates?” There being no further business, the meeting adjourned.

  Kydd arrived at the Chequers, weary from his unaccustomed writing, just as the sunny afternoon was giving way to a warm dusk. He found Parker in fine form, the center of a crush of seamen. Kydd smiled, letting his friend do what he did best, and settled at a distance. “Shant o’ y’r best,” he threw at the potboy. He was looking forward to visiting Kitty; she would be finished with her work at sundown. The beer arrived, dark and foaming, and he took a grateful pull.

  He looked idly about. There were few he knew—one or two Achilles, a Sandwich or three. The Chequers was known as the rendezvous of the delegates, and Kydd could think of many who would be too apprehensive to enter. The buzz of talk and Parker’s high voice droned on, and Kydd started to nod off. A noise outside did not register, and a young seaman burst into the room shouting: “It’s true, I swear it! It’s all over, mates, an’ we got what we want!” The room broke into a babble of excitement.

  “Gangway, yer mundungo-built beggar! Let’s see what it’s all about.”

  The crowd about Parker deserted him instantly and surrounded the ecstatic sailor. “Spithead—they got it all settled! They gets pay ’n’ all—an’ a full pardon, damn me eyes! Black Dick Howe ’imself signed the paper.”

  A rising elation swept away Kydd’s weariness.

  “Where did you hear this?” Parker called, above the uproar. If it was true, and it was a victory, their own mutiny had lost its purpose.

  “I got it straight fr’m th’ telegraph office. They just got word fr’m Spithead, an’ the Admiralty sends it on t’ here.” By a miracle of the clacking shutters spaced out between Sheerness and the roof of the Admiralty in London, apparently word of the settlement had been relayed to them over the long miles.